


No Good Deed

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-18 05:58:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9371141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: “No good deed goes unpunished,” Athos thought to himself. Sadly, it seemed to be their lot in life, and this wouldn’t be the first time that one of their foursome had suffered at fate’s fickle hand.





	1. The Loss

**Author's Note:**

> This story is tag to 3.09 and was written in response to a request from pmilly who wanted to see the effects of d'Artagnan's injuries in that episode. Warnings for spoilers for 3.09 and a minor reference to 3.10.
> 
> My thanks to AZGirl for her fantastic beta skills; all remaining mistakes are mine. There are 8 chapters in total and will be posted daily, except for Saturday, because real life continues to be busy.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The feeling was sharp and intense, sparking a fire in his back and side that seemed to radiate down into his fingertips. He couldn’t contain the gasp of pain that resulted, his eyes squeezing closed for only a heartbeat before blessed adrenaline flooded his veins, giving him the strength to stand and fight back. Unfortunately, he’d lost the element of surprise. Weakened by the blood that insisted on leaving his body along the path that the sword had cut, his temporary advantage over Grimaud was lost in mere moments as he was struck on the back of the head, making the last of his strength desert him.

 

The men had ruthlessly bound his hands, caring little for the way in which they jostled his wound. During their journey to the Duke of Lorraine’s estate, d’Artagnan was certain that he’d lost time, the world fading in and out intermittently until he was jerked from his horse and dragged inside the grand house.

 

The knowledge of his failure to protect the Dauphin was almost worse than the physical pain that now encompassed his entire right side; he let his head hang low, unsure if he could lift it if he tried. The men dragging him along let him fall jarringly to his knees, reawakening the throbbing in his back and side. He was pleased when he was able to contain his sounds of pain, refusing to give his captors any more satisfaction at his expense. As if sensing the Gascon’s stubbornness, his two guards cruelly pressed down against both shoulders, and he found himself biting his lower lip in order to remain silent.

 

The only good thing about his current predicament was that he was now reunited with Porthos and Treville, and their presence sent renewed energy through his limbs as he waited and watched, readying himself for the fight that he knew was coming. Seconds later, the room was in an uproar, and he armed himself as swiftly as possible before entering the fray to fight alongside his brothers. The skirmish was short but intense, and its ending was one that none of them could accept – they’d saved the Dauphin but Treville was dead. How could they possibly call the day a victory with such a horrific outcome?

 

Dazed, d’Artagnan listened as Aramis pronounced the Regent dead, and he could clearly see the grief and rage shining in Athos’ eyes, the older man probably closer to Treville than any of them. The marksman must have recognized something dangerous in the Captain’s stance as well as he settled Treville’s head gently on the ground. The Gascon watched as Aramis scrambled to his feet to go and console the older man – or was it to hold him back? d’Artagnan’s mind couldn’t decide, his thoughts slowing as the adrenaline leaked from his body, replaced by an overwhelming weariness that had him slipping sideways, barely bracing himself on his left arm as he sat next to Treville’s still form.

 

The world was once again shifting in and out of focus, but instead of fighting it, d’Artagnan found himself welcoming it, especially the numbness that seemed to flow over his body and mind. He found himself idly wondering why he’d been fighting so hard to begin with, since the blackness that hovered on the edges of his vision seemed a far better place than the one he currently occupied. With each blink of his eyes, it took a second longer before he was able to again raise his lids, the effort becoming greater each time they closed. Finally, the action became too much and d’Artagnan released a shuddering sigh, the blackness that had been beckoning becoming too hard to resist as his body slumped sideways to the ground.

 

As awareness fled, he momentarily registered the feeling of gravel beneath his cheek, the feel of the body lying next to him, and the concerned cry of his friends. Fleetingly he wondered if he was dead too, and then the darkness descended. 

* * *

Aramis blamed himself, although he was certain that similar thoughts of self-recrimination were currently running through Athos’ head as well. Neither of them had noticed – it was a bitter pill to swallow. The marksman prided himself on his ability to always be in tune with the others, sensing when one of his friends was hiding something and ferreting it out. Sometimes the clues were conveyed by the awkwardness of a stance, or the intentionally casual way in which one of the men braced their ribs. Other times Aramis had to be extra attentive, noting the wince that flashed momentarily across one of the men’s features, belying that all was not well and that the medic in him was needed.

 

Though it might be a boastful thing to say, Aramis was proud of his ability to know when one of his friends was hiding an injury; except this time, he’d had no idea until d’Artagnan had collapsed next to Treville. The young man’s proximity to the still body definitely made things worse, and Aramis’ initial thought was that the Gascon was dead as well. In a panic, he’d raced to d’Artagnan’s side and fallen to his knees, while his trembling hand had searched for a heartbeat, all the while silently praying that God had been merciful and limited their loss to just one man.

 

A somewhat hysterical giggle bubbled forth from his lips, and Aramis clamped his mouth closed to stop the horrible sound. _Just one man._ It was a woefully inadequate statement for the loss they’d suffered that day, and would change not only their lives but possibly their country’s future. Treville had been named Regent after the King’s death, and his absence would leave a wound that would be difficult to recover from. But compared to the thought of losing two, Aramis would happily accept the loss of just one man that day.

 

His brain finally registered the heartbeat beneath his fingers, and he released a shaky breath in relief, dropping his head for a moment before he was startled by a hand on his shoulder. Raising his face, he met Athos’ fearful expression above him, the older man clearly afraid that the Gascon had left them. “Is he?” the Captain managed.

 

“He’s alive,” Aramis answered, turning back to the young man to figure out why he’d fallen unconscious. Together, the two Musketeers rolled d’Artagnan gently onto his back, and the reason for the Gascon’s collapse was immediately obvious in the late-day sun. The marksman reached forward to touch the large patch of wet leather beneath his friend’s arm, unsurprised when he pulled his fingers away to find them covered in red.

 

Without having to ask, Athos immediately began to help the medic gain access to the wound that had been hidden from them earlier, unfastening d’Artagnan’s doublet and pulling it away from the young man’s shoulder and side. The amount of blood soaking the shirt underneath was staggering, and the older man wondered for a moment how the Gascon had remained functional for so long after losing such a large volume. Aramis’ nimble fingers were already examining the wound, having rolled the young man back onto his side and frowning at the odd location.

 

“Shot?” Athos asked, needing the conversation to distract himself from the multitude of worries that now ran rampant in his brain.

 

Aramis gave a short shake of his head as he replied, “No, stabbed. Strange angle, though; it suggests that someone was standing above him when it happened.” While the situation was curious, they had more urgent matters to attend to, namely stopping the flow of blood from the young man’s body before he bled out.

 

As if sensing his thoughts, Athos said, “We need to get him back to Paris.”

 

Aramis frowned at the suggestion, calculating the distance and how much blood d’Artagnan had likely already lost. Reaching a decision, he countered, “No, he won’t make it. Let’s get him inside so I can stop the bleeding.”

 

Athos’ expression turned dark as he hissed, “Are you mad? Their master has just been murdered, and you expect that we’ll be allowed back inside so that we can tend to d’Artagnan?”

 

The medic looked up, noting the uncertain expressions on the Duke’s remaining militiamen, and then let his gaze return to the Gascon’s pale face. In the few minutes since the young man’s collapse, his breathing had slowed and grown even more shallow, and Aramis was confident that time was quickly running out. Matching Athos’ vehemence he said, “It’s either that or we’ll be burying two friends. Is that what you want?”

 

The Captain physically recoiled at his friend’s harsh words, and for a moment, Aramis felt guilty for having been so cruel, but there would be time for apologies later. Right now they had only one priority, and that was saving the life of the Gascon who lay dying at their feet. It was apparent that Athos now understood the gravity of their situation, and he offered a slight dip of his head before turning away.

 

Aramis was momentarily confused as the Captain walked away, until his eyes landed on Athos’ destination – the commander of the militiamen. Athos’ bearing was straight and tall as he exchanged a few, brief words with the other man, before the two shook hands and retreated from one another. Moments later Athos was back at Aramis’ side, bending forward to lift d’Artagnan shoulders. As the medic followed suit, lifting the Gascon’s legs so they could carry the young man into the house, he asked, “What did you do?”

 

Athos gave a shake of his head and continued walking, and Aramis had to bite his tongue against the desire to push the older man for an answer, recognizing that whatever had been said was not meant for the ears of those who still stood around them. Whatever conversation Athos had had must have worked, because they were allowed to enter the house uncontested, making their way to a sitting room on the main floor where they laid d’Artagnan down on a settee.

 

Assuming Athos would again work his magic, Aramis immediately pulled a chair over to his patient’s side, taking a seat before using his dagger to cut through the sodden cloth of d’Artagnan’s shirt. “See if you can get some supplies – you know what I need.” Athos gave a nod before exiting the room. It was true, the older man reflected – he did know what was needed. It was a testament to the dangerous and often violent lives they led that they’d all been subjected to Aramis’ medical prowess at one time or another, just as the medic had been treated by them. As a result, they all had some level of skill with patching up various wounds, as well as dealing with the aftermath, which could often be worse than the injury itself.

 

Athos quickly located a servant and ordered the required items be brought to them at once. He caught the questioning look the man threw to the militia’s commander, who only nodded in return, giving his approval for assistance to be provided. With the supplies being organized, he returned to the sitting room where he found that Aramis had somehow gotten d’Artagnan free from both his doublet and shirt, and propped him up on his left side, facing the back of the settee. Though he should have been happy with the progress made during his absence, Athos found his breath catching in his chest instead as it became far more obvious how the Gascon was struggling for each breath.

 

Fortunately, he had no time to voice his concerns as servants entered the room only moments later, obviously having anticipated the need for the items he’d requested and having them already close at hand. A large bucket of cool water was placed near Aramis, while a bowl of hot water was deposited on a nearby table. A pile of clean linens followed, along with a bottle of brandy and two bottles of wine. Lastly, a small package was presented to Aramis and he could only assume that it held a needle and thread. He murmured a soft “thank you” as he stood and placed the item on the table, turning next to the linen that had been left.

 

Wetting several pieces, he motioned to Athos with one hand as he said, “Start cleaning some of this blood away.” The older man nodded and took the wet cloths from the medic’s hand, wiping away the red that covered the Gascon’s shoulder blade, flank and arm. As the older man washed away the evidence of the young man’s injury, Aramis took a moment to divest himself of his doublet, before rolling up both sleeves and washing his hands in the bucket of water. Next, he unrolled the leather packet he’d been given, revealing a needle and thread. The former item was doused in brandy, before he threaded it neatly in preparation to sew his friend’s skin closed.

 

By then, Athos had finished washing away the blood that had covered the young man’s upper body, and Aramis bent over to have a proper look at the wound. Pressing against the young man’s back caused fresh blood to dribble forth, and he muttered to himself in annoyance, “There’s no way to tell just how far the blade pierced.”

 

“Is that important?” Athos asked, expecting the medic to simply stitch the wound closed without worrying what might be underneath.

 

Aramis’ fist clenched in frustration as he said, “Shoulder wounds can be troubling.” Athos nodded in understanding, having seen many men hurt in a similar way. As if reading his friend’s thoughts, the medic shook his head as he went on. “No, you don’t understand. Most times a shoulder wound is a blessing, missing any vital organs. However, if placed just right, a lead ball or blade in the wrong spot can sever critical muscles and make it impossible for a man to use his arm again. From what I can see here, the sword entered from above and scraped along d’Artagnan’s shoulder blade, before continuing downwards and stopping somewhere underneath his arm, most likely deflected by a rib.” He turned his gaze up toward Athos, letting his friend see the true depth of his concern. “It is what’s underneath the skin that I can’t fix and what worries me now.”

 

Athos could see the fear in the medic’s eyes, and as much as his friend’s words terrified him, he was confident that they could deal with anything as long as the young man survived. With that thought at the forefront of his mind, he placed a comforting hand on the marksman’s shoulder as he said, “Aramis, he will die if you do not close the wound. Give him at least that chance, and we will deal with whatever comes next later.”

 

Aramis’ countenance seemed to lighten at the older man’s command, and he gave a dip of his chin in agreement, his hands already reaching for the strong spirits with which to clean the wound. Athos retreated a couple steps as the other man worked, wondering how it was that the weight that had only moments before rested on the medic’s shoulders had now somehow transferred to his own.

 

There were no guarantees that the Gascon would recover the use of his arm, and his career as a soldier would be over if that happened. In that sense, it might be kinder to allow him to die - as a Musketeer, a brother, a husband, and a hero of France, killed in the protection of the Dauphin. But as much as Athos wanted that legacy for his friend, he could not bear to see the young man go, so he selfishly ordered Aramis to save d’Artagnan’s life, praying that his friend would not hate him for it later if the worst came to pass.


	2. Time will tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Only time will tell,” he replied, staring pensively at d’Artagnan’s still form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the great welcome this story received, and to AZGirl for her tireless efforts to catch my typos. Hope you enjoy!

His first thought was that his back was on fire, so extreme was the pain that wrapped from his shoulder and around his side to his chest. As the nerves in his body ignited, he found the air pushed from his chest, suddenly unable to breathe over the intense agony.

 

“Breathe, d’Artagnan,” a voice next to his ear coaxed, but despite wanting desperately to comply, his lungs seemed to have seized. “You’re alright, d’Artagnan.” Again, the voice offered guidance and comfort, but the Gascon’s chest refused to cooperate. “Breathe, dammit,” the voice grew harsh and panicked, and was accompanied by a hand pounding on his back. The shock reminded his lungs how to work, and he gratefully sucked in a large gulp of air, coughing weakly moments later at the sudden onslaught of oxygen.

 

“Good, d’Artagnan, that’s very good,” a voice soothed, and d’Artagnan wondered foggily when breathing had become an accomplishment worthy of praise. The thought flitted away a moment later, and he focused simply on inhaling and exhaling slowly, squeezing his eyes closed against the fiery burn. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the pain ebbed, and he exhaled raggedly. Behind him, Athos and Aramis exchanged worried looks, the expulsion of air sounding more like a sob than anything else.

 

“d’Artagnan, can you hear me?” Athos asked, and this time the Gascon was pleased that he was able to identify the speaker. His first instinct was to offer a verbal response, but the deeper breath he tried to pull in order to speak had him whimpering in pain instead. Several seconds passed before he registered Athos’ voice again. “No need to speak, d’Artagnan, just squeeze my hand.” The request had the young man even more confused, unable to feel his friend’s hand in his. Another round of concerned looks passed between Athos and Aramis as the young man’s breathing began to speed and panic began to overwhelm his confused mind.

 

“It’s alright, d’Artagnan,” the medic soothed, pulling Athos’ hand gently from the Gascon’s. He gripped the young man’s cool hand in his own for a moment before shifting the arm forward and laying it across d’Artagnan’s chest. Next, he took Athos’ hand and placed it at the nape of the young man’s neck, asking as he did so, “Can you feel that?” Aramis received a jerky nod in reply, unaware of the throbbing of d’Artagnan’s head that threatened to send his skull flying apart. “Good. That’s Athos, and he’s going to keep his hand there while I finish cleaning and stitching your wound. I want you to focus on the feel of it sitting there. Do you understand?” d’Artagnan would have nodded again, but the ache in his head was now making his belly roil uncomfortably. Instead, he managed a low groan that the medic took as acceptance.

 

“Good. I’m just going to wipe away some of the brandy I poured earlier, which I’m guessing is what woke you,” Aramis said, understanding how confusing it must be for the Gascon to be unable to see what was happening behind him. Carefully, the medic did as he’d said, ghosting a dry cloth across the young man’s back and flank. Although the body beneath his hand was stiff with tension and pain, d’Artagnan held still while Aramis finished.

 

“I need to place some stitches now,” the medic explained, placing his fingers gently next to the wound. “You’ll feel the needle here,” he said, needing d’Artagnan to continue cooperating with them so he could finish. When the Gascon stayed silent, Aramis began, pinching the two sides of the wound closed as he inserted the needle into his friend’s skin. A soft whimper was the only indication that d’Artagnan was still awake and aware of what was happening.

 

“Talk to him, Athos,” the medic ordered quietly, completely focused on his task. In his peripheral vision, he could see the older man shift position just slightly, enabling him to place his lips close to the Gascon’s ear. As he whispered words of comfort to his protégé, Athos’ hand moved from the young man’s neck to card slowly through his hair. With his attention on the wound he was closing, Aramis missed the way that Athos’ hand stuttered momentarily before resuming its rhythm, and the concerned look that clouded the older man’s face.

 

By the time the last stitch had been set, d’Artagnan was shuddering on the settee, and Aramis was certain that shock was setting in. Speeding his actions, the medic wiped a brandy-soaked piece of linen across the neat line of thread before covering the wound with a folded square of cloth. They’d need to tie the bandage in place, but Aramis hoped the young man would pass out, allowing them to finish the uncomfortable process without causing him any more pain.

 

As he rested a hand on the clean cloth that lay partly on d’Artagnan’s back and partly on his side, Athos nodded towards the hand that was still tangled in the young man’s hair. With a raised eyebrow, Aramis asked an unspoken question, causing Athos to momentarily remove his hand and display it for the medic’s attention. Streaks of red covered the older man’s palm and middle fingers, indicating the presence of yet another injury.

 

Swallowing the urge to sigh, Aramis forced his voice to remain calm as he said, “All done, d’Artagnan. Try and get some sleep now.” With a nod toward Athos, the older man resumed the comforting motion of his hand, and within minutes, Aramis could feel the tension wane from the Gascon’s body as consciousness fled.

 

“Finally,” the medic breathed out a sigh of relief. “Help me finish wrapping this and then I’ll have a look at his head.”

 

Athos supported the young man’s upper torso so that Aramis could wrap the linen bandage around his back and chest, and then over and below his arm. As the medic was tying the last piece into place, Athos asked, “Are you sure we should let him sleep?”

 

Aramis gave a tired shake of his head as he replied, “No, but he needed some respite from the pain, and right now that’s more important than coddling his head injury.” The medic looked up as he finished, noting the expression of fear on his friend’s face. “We’ll wake him every two hours, but you have to trust me that this is the best thing for him right now.” Athos gave a hesitant dip of his chin, and Aramis knew that his friend’s uncertainty stemmed solely from his concern for their young charge. They draped two thick blankets over d’Artagnan’s still shivering form, tucking them in carefully around his body in an effort to stave off the impending shock.

 

“Trade places with me?” the medic suggested, already rising from his chair so he could examine the back of d’Artagnan’s head. It didn’t take long to locate where the skin on the Gascon’s head had split, and Aramis held a clean cloth to the gash until it stopped bleeding. Momentarily, he considered adding a stitch or two to keep it closed, but decided against it, not wanting to risk waking the young man with the sting of a needle. “It should heal fine on its own,” Aramis announced, wearily standing straight as his back protested the amount of time he’d spent bent over.

 

“Thank you,” Athos said, and Aramis offered a faint smile, understanding that his friend was expressing appreciation for more than the medical care he’d just provided. Though the older man might not realize it, Aramis was just as invested in the Gascon’s survival, and would be just as devastated by his death.

 

The older man momentarily laid a hand on d’Artagnan’s arm and then stood, Aramis watching him with confusion. “Where are you going?”

 

If possible, the look of sadness on Athos’ face deepened as he replied, “Treville’s body is still outside. I must make arrangements before too much more time passes.”

 

Aramis’ expression turned to horror, ashamed that he’d so quickly forgotten about their former commanding officer’s location. Unerringly reading his friend’s face, Athos soothed, “It’s alright, Aramis, you’ve been somewhat preoccupied.” He tried to offer his friend a comforting smile, but was certain that it fell flat and he found himself unable to summon the energy to try again.

 

Aramis nodded as he asked, “What will you do with the…ah…” He trailed off uncomfortably. The word “body” was on the tip of his tongue, but he could not find it within himself to say it. Instead, he swallowed thickly before trying again. “Him?”

 

Athos gave a shrug that some might have interpreted as uncaring, but Aramis knew that it was simply a reflection of how overwhelmed the older man was currently feeling. Without another word, Athos turned and walked away, and Aramis found himself settling back into the seat at d’Artagnan’s side as he waited for the older man to return.

* * *

Athos could feel the weight of the world resting on his shoulders as he walked out of the sitting room. He was surprised that there was no one standing guard outside the door, and he gratefully leaned against the wall to the left of the doorway, uncertain whether his legs would continue to hold him up. In the last hour, Grimaud and his men had nearly been successful in starting a civil war, using the Dauphin as leverage against their newly-widowed Queen. That the mercenary was still free was only secondary to the fact that Athos had lost a man he’d respected and loved almost more than his own father, Treville having provided something his own parent had not.

 

Now, d’Artagnan was fighting for his life while the Regent’s body lay outside, briefly forgotten and ignored while they’d had no choice but to focus on the living. As for the Dauphin, Athos could only hope the boy was safe, and he prayed that nothing more had befallen Porthos as he’d carried the future King back to Paris.

 

Athos pressed his fingers into his eyes, allowing his head to fall towards his chest for a moment as he focused simply on breathing. The day’s events had been overwhelming in their magnitude, and he found himself needing a minute to simply keep himself from falling apart. As he removed the hand from his face, he caught sight of his trembling fingers, and he allowed the traitorous limb to fall to his side as he made a fist in a feeble attempt to still the shaking. It was all too much, he found himself silently repeating. He was the Captain of the Musketeers, not the Regent, yet he had no choice but to continue on and do what was right for everyone involved. If ever he felt that Treville’s faith in him was woefully misplaced, now was that moment. Gritting his teeth, he angrily swiped at the moisture that clouded his vision, taking a deep, steadying breath before marching off in search of the militia’s commander.

 

It turned out that they hadn’t been left quite as alone as he’d initially thought; the officer he sought was waiting for him just two steps around the corner from the short hallway that led to the sitting room. Thankfully, it had been enough time for Athos to firmly affix his Comte’s expression upon his face, though he approached the other soldier more as an equal, needing to keep their tenuous peace intact for a little while longer.

 

“Captain,” the other man nodded at Athos’ arrival, standing fully upright instead of continuing to lean on the wall at his side.

 

The Musketeer gave a nod in return as he said, “I find myself at a disadvantage, Sir.” He let the unspoken question hang in the air, hoping the other man would understand.

 

“Mercier,” the militiaman supplied, and Athos’ didn’t comment on the lack of rank.

 

“Monsieur Mercier, you are likely familiar with the man who now lays in your courtyard.” The Musketeer paused for a moment until Mercier dipped his chin in confirmation. “Might I impose upon you to help me move the body somewhere more suitable until arrangements can be made to return it to Paris?”

 

The militiaman carefully observed Athos for several seconds, as if weighing the man in front of him before deciding to speak. “Captain, I have no quarrel with you nor with the Regent, and in the absence of the Duke, I believe it best to act in accordance with the wishes of the Crown.”

 

Allowing an eyebrow to rise slightly, Athos probed for more information. “And what would those be exactly?”

 

With an expression that conveyed a far better understanding of court politics than Athos would have expected, Mercier replied, “To ensure that the Regent’s body is returned for a proper burial, and to assist the King’s Musketeers in any way possible.”

 

The words settled over Athos like a warm cloak, though he was careful to keep his expression neutral as he responded. “I am gladdened to hear that, and would be happy to accept any help you’re able to extend.”

 

Having reached an understanding, Mercier said, “I’ve had the Regent’s body wrapped and moved to the cellar.” Anticipating an argument, the man raised his hand to stop Athos’ from speaking as he continued. “I know it’s less than ideal, but it is the coolest room we have.” At the militiaman’s explanation, Athos slightly inclined his head, indicating for the other man to continue. “You and your men are welcome to stay as long as necessary, and I’ve already had your horses watered and fed. They will be made ready for you whenever you wish to depart.”

 

The arrangements were more than Athos had expected and would make the coming hours much simpler. “Thank you,” he murmured sincerely. “Is there anyone who can take a message to Paris?”

 

“Of course,” Mercier replied. “Prepare your letter and I’ll have one of my most trustworthy men leave at once.”

 

Athos thanked the man again and then followed him back to the sitting room, Aramis looking up sharply as the two entered. Given his friend’s calm expression, the marksman determined that there was no need for alarm. Instead, he simply watched as Mercier pulled paper and pen from a table and presented them to Athos. The Captain wrote in silence for several minutes, waiting for a moment for the ink to dry before carefully rolling the parchment. He handed it to Mercier as he instructed, “Have this delivered to the Musketeer regiment and presented to Porthos. Instruct your messenger to wait, if need be, for this man.”

 

Mercier dipped his chin in understanding, taking the message and exiting the room while Athos made his way back to check on d’Artagnan and Aramis. The latter man looked up at his friend as he asked, “Was that wise?”

 

Athos merely shrugged, recognizing that they had little choice but to try and send word to Paris, relying on the assumption that Porthos had successfully returned. “Only time will tell,” he replied, staring pensively at d’Artagnan’s still form. “Only time will tell.” Without another word, he brought another chair over and took his place next to Aramis to watch over the young man.


	3. No Good Deed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No good deed goes unpunished,” Athos thought to himself, finishing the saying that his protégé had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to comment or leave kudos on this story. Thanks also to AZGirl for her amazing proofing skills. Hope you enjoy this next part!

Porthos slumped tiredly in Athos’ chair, having sought out the quiet solace of his friend’s office after leaving the Dauphin in Constance’s care. It was not an ideal solution, he knew, but in the midst of everything else that had happened, it was the only one that had come to mind. It was true that he could have simply returned the boy to his mother at the Louvre, but without being told, he instinctively sensed that the child was still in danger.

 

The ride back to Paris had been incredibly difficult, and his head had swivelled constantly in an effort to spot any potential danger, while his arm remained curled protectively around his royal charge. To say that he’d literally held his country’s future in his hands would be an understatement. While he’d been in fulfillment of his orders, his senses had remained sharp and his body had been flooded with strength, but once he’d passed the boy over, all that seemed to change. Now, as he reflected on his fevered journey back, all he could recall was a mix of blurred images as he’d raced to return as quickly as possible. His strength had deserted him as well, leaving his limbs leaden, and Porthos wondered if he would ever find the energy to stand again.

 

Releasing a long, weary exhale, he cast his mind back to the day’s events, and as each startling moment replayed in his mind, his heartrate unconsciously sped up in response. Treville had been shot. Worse yet, the look they’d exchanged when Porthos had handed over his pistol reeked far too strongly of farewell. He had no idea how badly the former Captain had been hurt, but he had recognized the expression on the older man’s face, having seen it worn by other soldiers as they made their last stand before falling dead. The idea that Treville could be gone rocked Porthos’ foundation, and led his tumultuous thoughts directly to his friends, all of whom he’d left behind in order to fulfill the Regent’s orders.

 

He’d seen Aramis and Athos racing towards the estate as he’d been galloping away, sprinting as though the hounds of Hell were on his heels. He knew the Musketeers were badly outnumbered and could only pray their superior skills were enough to save them, or at least give them an advantage until they could retreat. The fact that he sat at the garrison alone was a harsh reminder that none of the others had yet returned, and Porthos felt more uncertain than he’d ever been, not knowing whether to return to the Duke’s estate, seek an audience with the Queen, or simply remain where he was. Given his body’s reluctance to move, he unconsciously chose the third option and continued sitting in Athos’ chair.

 

His sense of time slipped away as he numbly waited for some sign of what he should do. Then, as though delivered by God himself, a knock on the door announced someone’s presence. Without thought, he called, “Enter.”

 

The man who opened the door and stood framed in the entrance was unknown to Porthos, and he instinctively straightened in the chair, his right hand drifting to rest on the hilt of his sword. “I seek the Musketeer called Porthos,” the man hesitantly announced, his own hand held carefully away from his weapon.

 

“I’m Porthos,” the Musketeer replied, watching the new arrival with unabashed hostility.

 

“I was sent by the Captain of the Musketeers to deliver this message,” the man replied, holding aloft a rolled piece of parchment. At Porthos’ nod, the man approached, passing the paper across the desk that separated them. Taking a step back to allow the Musketeer some modicum of privacy, the messenger asked, “Shall I wait for a reply?”

 

Porthos eyed the man again, even as his fingers were unrolling the parchment in his hands. He gave a noncommittal grunt in reply, which the messenger took as assent. As the man across from him waited patiently, Porthos’ gaze dipped to the letter in his hands, relief flooding him when he recognized Athos’ distinctive script. He re-read the message twice, carefully hiding his shock at learning of Treville’s death. While the loss of the Regent was painful, it was not entirely unexpected, however d’Artagnan’s condition was.

 

When the Gascon had appeared at the estate, Porthos couldn’t help but be happy, despite the fact that the young man had been Grimaud’s prisoner. As soon as the fight had broken out, he’d seen d’Artagnan throw himself into the fray, and he racked his brain now for some memory of when the young man could have been hurt. Shaking his head slightly when nothing came to mind, he focused on the other half of Athos’ message, which ordered him to stay in Paris to continue looking after the Dauphin; his three brothers would return as soon as d’Artagnan could safely travel. That the Gascon’s condition was dire enough to prevent them from leaving made Porthos’ gut clench uncomfortably.

 

The messenger cleared his throat, obviously wanting to get the Musketeer’s attention, and Porthos wondered how long he’d spent absently considering Athos’ words. With a nod of acknowledgement towards the man, Porthos pulled parchment and ink from the Captain’s desk, penning a few short sentences before handing the completed message over. “This is only for Athos, Captain of the Musketeers,” he paused, withholding the letter for a moment longer. Upon receiving a slight dip of the other man’s chin, Porthos released his hold. “Don’t let that fall into anyone else’s hands.”

 

With another curt nod, the man exited, and Porthos released a long breath as he stared at the closing door. In Athos’ absence, he would be responsible for the regiment, and most importantly, for the continued safety of the Dauphin. While Porthos was grateful for his friend’s faith in him, he chafed at the fact that he was stuck within the city walls, unable to leave in order to check on the others and assure himself that they were well. Though Athos would likely disagree, Porthos now felt he’d been given the more difficult task – that of waiting for his brothers to return. 

* * *

The low sound of voices reached his ears, and he focused on them, trying to follow them back from the complete darkness that seemed so unwilling to release him from its hold. After several minutes, he found he was still unable to discern any of the conversation, the words being murmured too softly for him to understand. Of course, it was also possible that his wavering focus may have made the task that much more difficult, as he seemed to vacillate between awareness and unconsciousness.

 

As he concentrated more fully on waking, he became aware of the dull ache that started in his back and ran beneath his arm to end somewhere on his right side. He tried to remember what could have caused the pain, but that only awakened the throbbing in his skull, and he found himself inhaling sharply only to groan a moment later.

 

“d’Artagnan, are you awake?” Aramis asked, alerted by the Gascon’s sound of pain. He and Athos had stayed at the young man’s side as he slept, and the medic had been about to try and rouse d’Artagnan when he began to show the first signs of awareness. Laying a hand on his patient’s upper arm, Aramis squeezed gently as he said, “d’Artagnan, I need you to open your eyes now.” The marksman waited for the Gascon to comply, while Athos stood beside him, observing the young man’s struggle as he tried to do as he’d been asked.

 

After several unsuccessful attempts, d’Artagnan finally opened his eyes, the brown orbs glassy from the severity of his injuries. His gaze moved shakily until he located Aramis’ smiling face above him, the medic pleased to see his friend wake mostly on his own. “It’s good to see you awake,” the medic commented, giving d’Artagnan’s arm another soft squeeze. “How are you feeling?”

 

The Gascon’s expression remained dazed as he responded. “What happened?”

 

Athos winced at how weak d’Artagnan sounded, and was grateful when Aramis didn’t react. Instead, he asked, “What do you remember?”

 

The young man’s eyelids fluttered closed for several seconds as he tried to recall how he’d ended up feeling so poorly. Opening his eyes again, he tentatively offered, “The Dauphin?” At Aramis’ nod, he went on, “Grimaud found us.” He swallowed with difficulty and then asked, “Treville?”

 

Aramis’ expression shuttered as he was assaulted by the vision of Treville’s sightless eyes staring up at him. Taking a steadying breath, he answered, “I’m sorry; he’s gone.”

 

d’Artagnan’s breathing hitched as the marksman provided confirmation of what his hazy memory had presented, and it took him a long moment before he could speak again. “Where are we?”

 

“Still at the Duke of Lorraine’s residence,” Athos supplied, and d’Artagnan realized for the first time that both his friends were with him. He attempted to shift further onto his back in order to get a look at the older man, but stopped abruptly and grimaced as the pain in his back flared.

 

Aramis’ arm was on his chest at once, offering him a physical reminder to stay still. d’Artagnan closed his eyes for several moments before opening them again to ask, “The Dauphin?”

 

“Safe,” Athos replied, having moved closer and into the Gascon’s field of vision. “Porthos has him,” the Captain explained, leaving out the fact that they had no confirmation that either of them had actually made it back to Paris. Given the young man’s condition, Athos felt it unnecessary to burden him with that detail.

 

“Hmm,” d’Artagnan hummed, his eyes slipping closed once more. His expression was visibly pinched as he struggled against the increasing intensity of the pain in his head and side.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis’ voice called to him and he managed to prop his eyelids open partway. “This will help with the pain,” the medic stated, holding a cup in one hand where the young man could see it. “Athos,” Aramis commanded, and the older man moved closer immediately, prepared to help raise the Gascon up so he could drink. “Let us do all the work,” the medic ordered before nodding at the Captain.

 

Athos’ hands slipped carefully underneath d’Artagnan’s back, avoiding the bandages that covered the young man’s shoulder blade and disappeared beneath his arm. The Gascon’s face paled as he was raised, but he parted his lips automatically when Aramis lifted the cup to his mouth, and he swallowed several mouthfuls before pulling away with a grimace. “No more,” he slurred, his eyes closed tightly in pain as his body shook with fine tremors.

 

“Alright, d’Artagnan,” Aramis acquiesced. Athos lowered the young man gently back onto the settee, his face anguished as he observed the Gascon’s poor state. The medic deposited the half-drained draught onto the table at his side before pulling the blanket covering d’Artagnan up to his chin, tucking the heavy cover in carefully so that no cold air could slip beneath its edges. The Gascon let out a soft sigh of relief as his pain began to ebb away, breathing out bitterly, “No good deed…” He trailed off as sleep claimed him, and Aramis and Athos traded knowing looks.

 

_“No good deed goes unpunished,”_ Athos thought to himself, finishing the saying that his protégé had begun. Sadly, it seemed to be their lot in life, and this wouldn’t be the first time that one of their foursome had suffered at fate’s fickle hand.


	4. Athos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a soft sigh, he crumpled bonelessly to the ground, his bloody hand falling to his side to reveal the cause of his collapse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been reading this story, and to AZGirl for her diligence in catching my mistakes. Reminder that I won't be posting tomorrow (Saturday) and the next chapter will be up on Sunday.

As the lights outside dimmed, and servants came unobtrusively into the sitting room to light candles, Athos’ mind was cast back to many years ago, to another ill-fated mission.

 

**Many years ago…**

 

It was during his first few months as a Musketeer, and he could easily admit that he’d fit in poorly with the rest of the regiment, doing his best to keep others at a distance, interacting only as needed in the fulfillment of his duties. He and two others had been ordered to escort Mademoiselle Beguin from Chateaudun to Paris, where her father awaited her. The elder Beguin was the Vicomte in their home county, and was currently a guest at Court.

 

The amount of time they’d been given to complete their mission had been generously set at one week, even though Athos believed it possible to easily complete the journey in four or five days; of course, he’d neglected to consider the speed of a fully-laden carriage travelling along deeply-rutted French roads. Despite the awkwardness of the lady’s conveyance, they made good time until they were attacked on their fourth day. Athos had fought valiantly against the half-dozen bandits, and successfully escaped with his charge, although his two comrades’ had fallen, their blood staining the dirt road where they lay. As they’d ridden away with a sole horse between them, the former Comte had wondered at how quickly their luck had turned for the worse.

 

“Monsieur Athos,” the voice came from behind, and Athos irritatingly wondered what the young woman wanted now. Didn’t she understand the severity of their situation? While they’d managed to defeat their attackers, it was completely possible that there were additional men lying in wait for them along the road to Paris. “Monsieur Athos,” the lady spoke again, her tone more insistent than before.

 

Grudgingly, the Musketeer turned his head slightly sideways so he could be heard and replied, “Yes, Mademoiselle.”

 

“We must stop and take care of your wound, Monsieur,” the woman responded, momentarily lifting a hand from where it encircled Athos’ waist to display the red that painted her palm.

 

Athos gave a quick shake of his head. “There’s no time.”

 

“Don’t be stupid, Monsieur,” the young woman countered. “How far do you think we’ll get if you bleed to death?”

 

God save him from wilful women, Athos thought to himself, trying once more to convince his charge of the necessity of continuing on without interruption. “We can stop once we’re farther away.”

 

The Musketeer could have sworn the lady snorted at him, but he dismissed the thought immediately, unable to reconcile such a sound coming from the daughter of a nobleman. “We’ll stop now, Monsieur, while we still have a chance to keep some of your blood inside your body, where it belongs.” Before Athos could offer a protest, Beguin’s hands were reaching for the reins, and Athos was unable to stop her from roughly yanking back on them, causing the horse to stumble and then slow to a jerky halt.

 

He turned in his saddle to berate her for her actions, but she was already slipping from the animal’s back. “Are you coming?” she asked impatiently as she stood on the ground, with her hands on her hips.

 

Biting his tongue against the acerbic reply that wanted to surge forth, he stiffly dismounted, swallowing his grunt of pain as his feet hit the ground. He held onto the saddle for a few moments as he waited for the throbbing in his midsection to recede. On the other side of the horse, the woman’s expression softened a little as she watched the stoic Musketeer compose himself.

 

When several seconds had passed, Beguin asked, “Do you have any bandages in your bags?”

 

Athos thought about the supplies he carried, consisting of his bedroll, a small amount of food, a clean shirt, and three bottles of wine. “No,” he replied, shaking his head.

 

The lady seemed nonplussed by his response, lifting up her skirts and beginning to tear at the fabric at the bottom. Athos was horrified as he heard the first rip. “No, Mademoiselle, it’s unnecessary for you to ruin your fine dress.”

 

Beguin was facing downwards, but the Musketeer was certain he could hear the eye roll in her tone. “My fine dress is _already_ ruined, Monsieur,” she replied, momentarily holding her blood-stained sleeve aloft before returning to her task.

 

Athos let out a low sigh as he watched the young woman tear a long strip from her skirt. “Come around here so I can have a look,” she commanded as she stood upright, glancing around for a moment before moving to a nearby boulder. With a nod of her head, she indicated for the Musketeer to sit, and Athos did so, biting down on his lip to stifle any sounds of discomfort as he lowered himself down.

 

Holding a hand up to stay her actions, he said, “Mademoiselle, I assure you, this is unnecessary.” She raised a disapproving eyebrow before kneeling in front of him, her hands reaching for his doublet. Athos’ hands caught hers and pushed them away before turning his attention to the fastenings. Gingerly, he pulled one side of the leather garment open, sliding a hand underneath to finger the slice in his sodden shirt.

 

Impatiently, Beguin pulled his hand free and pushed aside both sides of the Musketeer’s doublet, pausing for only a second before untucking and lifting the man’s shirt up so she could examine the skin underneath. An angry-looking wound bisected Athos’ stomach, the slice sitting just above his bellybutton and extending for several inches on either side. The cut was still bleeding sluggishly, especially from the middle where the blade that had bitten into Athos’ flesh had cut deeply.

 

“Hold this,” the young woman ordered as she dropped the makeshift bandage into the Musketeer’s lap. She made unerringly for Athos’ bag, pulling out a bottle of wine, something she’d been confident she would find given the amount the man had consumed during their previous nights on the road. Ripping off a smaller piece of fabric from the section she’d earlier removed from her skirt, Beguin doused it thoroughly with alcohol. Lifting the ruined shirt away from the Musketeer’s body, she scrubbed at the bloody slice. Athos sat stiffly through her ministrations, his hands clenching the stone on either side of him as he fought the urge to cry out.

 

“Hold this,” she ordered once more, lifting the hem of his ruined shirt upwards and waiting for him to grasp it so she could have both her hands free. As Athos pulled the fabric up and away from his stomach, Beguin placed the bottle on the ground and then tightly bandaged his midsection. “How’s that?” she asked as she rocked back onto her heels, wiping her bloody hands on the front of her skirt.

 

Athos let his shirt fall and placed a hand over his tender belly, the sting of the wine still burning uncomfortably. Wordlessly, he bent forward and reached for the bottle, gasping as the position tugged at his injury. Pulling the cork free with his teeth, he spat it aside and drank deeply, not stopping until the bottle was nearly empty. He let the bottle fall to his lap, resting it there while he regained his breath, his eyes closed and his face titled up towards the sky.

 

When the wine had dulled the sharp edges of his pain, he reopened his eyes and met the young woman’s gaze. “Thank you.”

 

Beguin offered a shy smile before pushing herself to her feet. “Then we’d best be on our way.”

 

Athos watched the young woman pick up the cork from the ground and place it back into the neck of the wine bottle, before removing it from his grasp. She walked back to the horse and repacked it, giving the Musketeer time to summon the energy to stand, and Athos was grateful for her consideration. He made it to his feet with only a low moan, keeping one hand against the wound as he willed it to stop bleeding. Unfortunately, the cut was serious enough that it would require several stitches, but Athos believed they could make it to Paris before his condition became dire.

They’d ridden mostly in silence, Beguin asking intermittently how he was faring, but otherwise letting him concentrate on riding. Athos didn’t comment that her occasional interruptions were welcome, since their timing seemed to coincide with his lapses in attention, and he was certain he would have fallen unconscious if not for her presence.

As evening descended, they stopped at a farmhouse, Athos negotiating a room for the night with the owner. While Beguin slept in the small bed, the Musketeer sat propped in a chair in one corner, one hand constantly on the pistol that lay across his lap. Despite the uncomfortable position, he managed to get some rest and woke before their hosts did; they were on the road again just before dawn.

 

By the time that they entered the city, Athos’ world had narrowed to maintaining his hold on the reins and staying in the saddle. If their journey had lasted even another hour, he was confident that he would not have made it, likely falling from his horse and lacking the strength to mount again. Fortunately, the guards at the palace gates recognized his distinctive pauldron, and he was allowed to pass through uncontested. When it was time to dismount, Beguin slid down first and named herself to the servant who appeared and then disappeared to announce her arrival.

 

They were left alone for several minutes as they waited for the servant to reappear, and the young woman took advantage of the time to help Athos dismount. The Musketeer couldn’t stifle a gasp of pain as the movement pulled on his wound, and he held himself up stiffly, leaning on the horse’s flank as he willed his knees to lock. By the time they were led through to where the King was holding court, Athos was sweating profusely as he clutched at the sodden bandage around his waist. He knew his wound was bleeding again in earnest, but prayed that he could hold on for a few minutes more until he was officially given leave by the royal.

 

As they were brought before the King, Mademoiselle Beguin curtsied daintily while Athos bent at the waist, gritting his teeth as he struggled to pull himself upright again afterwards. He watched as a man rushed forward to embrace the young woman, whom Athos assumed was the girl’s father.

 

“My dear, are you alright?” he asked, as he pulled back to take a proper look at his almost-adult child. Athos cast his eyes unobtrusively downward, noting the dirt that caked his boots and breeches, and the dark stain that colored his middle. Discreetly, he ran a hand through his matted curls, trying and failing to tame his unruly locks. It was obvious that the young woman’s appearance was also in disarray, prompting the noble’s concerned question.

 

“I’m fine, papa,” she exclaimed, a bright smile on her face. “This Musketeer protected me from the bandits who attacked us, and even sat watch over me last night when we stayed at a farmer’s home.”

 

The Vicomte’s expression turned from relief to confusion. “What do you mean, he watched over you last night?”

 

“We stayed at this small house; it only had two bedrooms, but the farmer was kind enough to let us have one,” the daughter replied, excited to recount how well she’d been cared for. “Monsieur Athos stayed at my side all night.”

 

Athos’ stomach fell as he listened to the younger Beguin’s explanation, understanding before she did how his actions were about to be turned against him. In an effort to try and salvage the situation, he took a step forward and drew breath to speak, but the Vicomte had already advanced on him. “Musketeer, you spent the night alone with my daughter?”

 

“Yes,” Athos replied, but his attempts to say anything further were interrupted as the nobleman went on.

 

“Without a chaperone?” the Vicomte continued, his face turning red as he spoke.

 

“Yes,” Athos responded again.

 

The nobleman turned away from him with a flourish, returning to stand at his daughter’s side as he addressed the King. Despite the desire to defend himself, Athos stayed in place, aware that his hold on reality was once more becoming tenuous as his body’s condition worsened. He had no idea of how long he waited, unaware that he was swaying softly, when the commanding voice of the King broke through his fugue.

 

“Athos, I am most disturbed by your conduct,” the royal began, and Athos squinted against his wavering vision, doing his best to give the man his attention. “I have been assured by Mademoiselle Beguin that your actions towards her have been nothing less than honorable, and given your past, I’m inclined to believe her.” The Musketeer’s head bobbed jerkily on his neck as he indicated his understanding. “However, you really should have known better, and the Vicomte demands a formal apology. I believe he is owed nothing less.”

 

Louis indicated the nobleman with a hand, waiting expectantly for Athos to comply. The Musketeer turned carefully towards the elder Beguin, blinking sluggishly in an effort to bring the man into focus. With lips that seemed to be losing feeling, he said, “My sincere apologies. I meant no disrespect and merely did what I thought was best to keep your daughter safe.”

 

He fell silent then, waiting for some indication that he’d been forgiven. When the King clapped his hands in delight and walked back to his seat, Athos took it to be the sign he’d been waiting for. One by one, the people in attendance turned their attention away from him and back to Louis, and the Musketeer took it as his cue to leave. Turning on his heel, he found his balance deserting him, and the move turned rapidly into a swaying half-step. He managed to stay standing for only a moment more before his legs turned weak and the blackness encroaching on his vision became complete. With a soft sigh, he crumpled bonelessly to the ground, his bloody hand falling to his side to reveal the cause of his collapse.

 

When he’d finally woken, several hours had passed, and he found himself lying on a cot in the garrison infirmary. Treville had been waiting for him to wake, and he helped Athos take a small drink of water before announcing, “His Majesty is very unhappy about what happened today,” he said, then sighed as he stood up in preparation to leave. “Apparently blood is incredibly difficult to scrub out of the parquet flooring.”

 

Athos rolled his eyes as his Captain squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. As the officer exited the room, Athos could hear him call out, “No good deed, Athos; no good deed.”

 

**Present Day**

 

“Athos?” Aramis said again, noting that the older man seemed to be lost in thought. Athos blinked and finally focused on the medic, only mildly surprised to find himself in the Duke’s sitting room rather than the garrison’s infirmary.

 

“Athos, I need your help,” Aramis stated, already soaking a cloth in the bucket of water. “d’Artagnan’s running a fever.”


	5. Porthos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The effect was instantaneous and devastating; the Musketeer dropped bonelessly to the ground, his legs suddenly unable to hold him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments on the last chapter, and apologies for the unintentional cliffhanger. Hope this chapter was worth the wait.

Aramis had been content to sit at Athos’ side as the older man had fallen silent. Neither man was in the mood for conversation as they dealt with their grief over Treville’s passing, as well as their worry for d’Artagnan. The Gascon had thankfully fallen into a fitful slumber after consuming a portion of the pain draught that Aramis had prepared, but the respite had been far too brief as the young man became increasingly more restless.

 

The medic had carefully checked on the stitches he’d placed earlier and had frowned at the red, slightly-swollen skin he’d discovered. A hand on the young man’s forehead had revealed an unnatural heat that warned of fever, and Aramis sighed as he cursed d’Artagnan’s poor luck. Infection was always a concern with any open wound, but the marksman had hoped the Gascon would avoid such a fate – sadly, that did not seem to be the case.

 

He’d watched over their sick friend, trying initially to reduce his temperature through the use of cool cloths on his forehead, but d’Artagnan only continued to grow worse. Now, with the Gascon’s face and neck covered in beads of sweat, panting for each shallow breath, Aramis felt the need to try more aggressive measures. It was this reason that had prompted him to pull Athos from his thoughts, wanting the older man to continue with the cool cloths while the medic took another look at d’Artagnan’s wound.

 

Athos had been startled when the medic had finally pierced the veil of memory that had held him in its grasp. Although the event he’d recalled had happened many years ago, he still remembered vividly the feeling of betrayal at having been punished, first for fulfilling his duty and then for passing out in front of the King. He knew that Treville had agreed with him about the injustice of the situation, but there had been nothing either of them could do about it. Instead, Athos had done what had been necessary to regain his health, while the Captain had given him a couple of the more desirable assignments as a sort of unspoken apology for what he’d endured.

 

“Here,” Aramis was speaking again, handing Athos the newly-wetted cloth, and the older man took it automatically, already shifting closer to where d’Artagnan lay. The medic pulled the blanket down and folded it back to reveal d’Artagnan’s chest. “Wipe down his face and upper body while I prepare a poultice.”

 

“How bad?” Athos asked as he began to do as he’d been instructed.

 

Aramis unpacked his bag, laying out the items he’d need as he answered. “Not too bad yet, but I’d rather nip this in the bud quickly.”

 

The older man nodded, recognizing how uncomfortable d’Artagnan seemed. “Is he strong enough to deal with this?” he asked, dreading the answer, but needing to voice the question regardless.

 

Aramis’ hands paused momentarily before resuming their practiced motions, adding a bit of water to the herbs he’d already selected and ground into a powder. “No use borrowing trouble, Athos,” the medic replied, his gaze cast downwards as he worked.

 

Athos noted the fact that his friend hadn’t really answered his question, and he chose to believe that if things got truly bad, Aramis would be honest with him. In the meantime, he’d have faith that the medic knew what he was doing, and that it was still within the man’s power to help the ailing Gascon. A few minutes later, Aramis had the poultice ready, and he applied it to the wound with Athos’ help. Neither man commented on the fact that d’Artagnan’s fevered mumblings continued throughout the process without pause, despite knowing that their ministrations had to have caused a spike in the young man’s pain.

 

“We’ll let that work for a while,” Aramis said, resuming his seat at his patient’s side.

 

d’Artagnan shivered and Athos reached for the blanket, intending to pull it up to once more cover the young man’s chest, but Aramis caught his hand. “No,” he stated, shaking his head. “We need to bring his temperature down.”

 

Athos withdrew his hand with a look of regret, recalling clearly the sensation of being too cold while battling a fever. He was about to say something of the kind to Aramis when d’Artagnan gasped in his sleep, prompting Athos to cup the young man’s cheek in an effort to calm him. “You’re alright, d’Artagnan,” he said softly, hoping that his words would be able to penetrate the Gascon’s fevered sleep.

 

As the two men watched, d’Artagnan seemed to relax, although his eyes moved constantly beneath his closed lids. “Wonder what he’s dreaming about,” Aramis commented.

 

**Two years earlier…**

 

“No good deed goes unpunished,” d’Artagnan had mumbled as he’d helped Porthos from the ground where he’d fallen. Carefully, he had pulled the larger man to his feet and then led him several steps to the side of a building where he’d propped his friend. As Porthos had slumped gratefully against the support at his back, the Gascon had meticulously brushed at his friend’s leathers, removing every last speck of dirt and debris that provided evidence of what the man had endured.

 

It had been a rare day of relaxation for the two friends. Athos and Aramis were away on a short assignment, which left nothing but training for the men left behind. They’d been diligent in completing their assigned tasks, and had been excited when Treville had dismissed the men earlier than normal, even the Captain enjoying the first really warm day of spring. Porthos had immediately suggested heading to a tavern, but d’Artagnan had been reluctant to go, relishing the sensation of the warm sunshine on his face, and the larger man had relented. They’d set off through the garrison gates, wandering aimlessly through the streets of Paris with no real destination in mind.

 

It had happened while they were meandering through the marketplace, Porthos’ keen observational skills noting how a young, waiflike boy lingered for just a few seconds too long at a stand boasting a selection of aromatic smoked meats. The Musketeer nudged his companion in the ribs, prompting a look of surprise to appear on d’Artagnan’s face until Porthos pointed to the focus of his attention. As the two friends watched, the young boy surreptitiously pulled a small blade from inside his clothes and cut the strings holding several thick sausages aloft, slipping his prize immediately back into the folds of his shirt when he was done.

 

The boy’s movements were quick and practiced, timed perfectly to coincide with the vendor turning away to deal with another customer. As the theft was concluded, d’Artagnan’s expression turned to anger and he took a half-step forward before being stopped by Porthos’ large hand on his chest. “No, let ‘im go.” At the confused look he received from his friend, Porthos explained. “Look at ‘im. He’s half-starved and I’d bet that’s the only food he’ll eat today.” Having grown up in the Court of Miracles, the large man was far too familiar with the pangs of hunger and the lengths that people would go for even the barest amount of food.

 

d’Artagnan was torn. He saw the wisdom in his friend’s words, but at the same time, a part of him railed against simply allowing someone to steal from a hardworking shopkeeper, who likely relied on the money earned to support a family. As if sensing the Gascon’s indecision, Porthos clapped a hand to the young man’s back as he said, “Come on.” They wove their way through the crowded marketplace, noting that the young thief had already slunk away and lost himself in the throng of people. d’Artagnan’s surprise was renewed as he followed Porthos to the vendor’s stand, the large Musketeer placing himself neatly in view of the owner.

 

“Excuse me, Monsieur,” he said, announcing himself to the vendor as he fingered the now-empty pieces of twine that hung in front of his face. “It seems that someone has helped themselves to some of your goods and I want to pay for the missing items.”

 

The Gascon felt a surge of pride at his friend’s selfless act. Crossing his arms over his chest, he fell into a relaxed pose as a broad grin appeared on his face. An instant later, everything had changed, and d’Artagnan barely registered how quickly the expression on the vendor’s face turned from welcoming to hateful. The young man was confused by the sudden shift and watched in horror as the stall’s owner took advantage of Porthos’ moment of distraction as the Musketeer rooted around in his purse for the appropriate coins. Before d’Artagnan could move to stop him, the shopkeeper had pulled a thick piece of wood from beneath a shelf at his waist, and aimed a stunning blow at the side of Porthos’ head.

 

The effect was instantaneous and devastating; the Musketeer dropped bonelessly to the ground, his legs suddenly unable to hold him. “No,” d’Artagnan cried, stepping forward at once to grab the club that the vendor had used to stunning effect, wresting it angrily from the man’s hands.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, his breath heaving in and out of his chest in outrage as he stood between Porthos and his aggressor.

 

The man cast a disparaging look in Porthos’ direction as he spat, “You ‘eard ‘im. He stole from me.”

 

The Gascon’s ire grew at the stupidity of the man before him as he leaned forward and crowded the other man. “You idiot. He didn’t steal anything. This man is a Musketeer and one of the most honorable men I’ve ever had the privilege to know. So honorable that when he saw someone else stealing from you, he offered to pay for what was taken out of his own purse.”

 

As the vendor cowered away from him, d’Artagnan realized that in his rage, the arm holding the man’s club had somehow been raised threateningly over his head. At the realization, the Gascon threw the wood away in disgust, sending one last glare toward the cowed man before turning his attention to his fallen friend.

 

Crouching at the large man’s side, he rolled the Musketeer from his side to his back, a hand reaching out to hover over Porthos’ temple which was covered in red. “Porthos,” the Gascon said, wary of staying in the marketplace too long, lest the vendor find the courage to attack again.

 

The large man opened his eyes with difficulty, his gaze wavering as he tried to make out the identity of the man leaning over him. “d’Artagnan?” he mumbled.

 

“Yes, Porthos, it’s me. Do you think you can stand?” the Gascon asked, already reaching for his friend’s arm. The large man’s head rocked shakily on his shoulders for a second before eliciting a low groan. d’Artagnan ignored the sound and continued tugging in an effort to pull his friend to his feet.

 

It took a great deal of effort on the young man’s part, Porthos trying but mostly failing to help. Eventually they were both standing and breathing hard, d’Artagnan from exertion and Porthos from the throbbing of his head. With a quick glance around, the Gascon steered them toward a nearby building, propping his friend gently against its support. A quick search of Porthos’ pockets revealed his ever-present scarf and d’Artagnan used it to wipe up the worst of the blood, before refolding the material and tying it around his friend’s head to cover the gash on his temple.

 

Porthos rested his head on the wall at his back, closing his eyes against the ache and the dizziness he was now experiencing. He barely noticed when the Gascon began to brush at his clothes, and it took him several seconds before he registered the feeling of his friend’s hands on him. “What’re you doin’?” he slurred softly.

 

“Nothing,” d’Artagnan answered, determined that no one else would see how poorly his friend had been treated. “All done,” he said as he straightened and watched as Porthos’ head lifted, his eyes opening sluggishly. “Let’s get you back to the garrison.”

 

Porthos was pliant as the Gascon ducked beneath one shoulder, looping an arm around the injured man’s waist. As they stumbled along unsteadily, the large man’s head hung low, and d’Artagnan could just barely make out the words he was uttering. “Was jus’ tryin’ to do the right thing.”

 

The Gascon’s lips thinned into a bitter smile as he replied, “You know what they say about good deeds, Porthos.”

 

**Present Day**

 

After quietly observing d’Artagnan for several minutes, Athos noted how the young man seemed to have calmed. Recalling Aramis’ earlier question, he finally offered a reply. “Whatever he was dreaming about, he seems to have stopped now.”

 

The comment caught Aramis’ attention and he noted with satisfaction how the Gascon seemed to have fallen into a deeper sleep. With a nod, he indicated his agreement with Athos’ assessment.


	6. Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s good to see you awake.” The Gascon managed a slight grin, only a fraction of its usual brightness, but its presence made Athos and Aramis smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to everyone reading, commenting and leaving kudos, and to AZGirl for her awesome beta skills.

As the hours passed, time seemed to slow in the sitting room of the estate. At some point, servants had delivered a meal which Aramis and Athos had merely picked at, despite the quality of the food and wine they’d been given. Sometime after midnight, the messenger had returned from Paris, bearing a response from Porthos that made both men’s hearts lighter. The large man had confirmed that everyone was safe and that he would await further word from them, taking responsibility for the garrison’s affairs in Athos’ absence. The Captain had offered a rare smile at that, his faith in Porthos redoubled at how willingly his friend had taken on the mantle of command.

 

The positive news had seemed to lift some of the weight from Athos’ shoulders, leaving the man even wearier than before, and Aramis had ordered his friend to get some sleep, lest he end up with a second patient to care for. Grudgingly, Athos had agreed, eliciting a promise to be woken in three hours so the medic could also get some rest before morning. It took less than a minute for the older man to drop off, resting comfortably on another settee with his doublet draped over him as a blanket.

 

As soon as he was confident that Athos was getting some much-needed sleep, his gaze returned to the Gascon, d’Artagnan still shivering and sweating as he battled the infection in his wound. Shaking his head slowly, Aramis commented softly to himself, “I know, it’s unjust - that you would be so badly hurt while that vile snake, Grimaud, walks free.”

 

Re-wetting a fresh cloth, Aramis tenderly wiped the beads of sweat from his friend’s face as his mind conjured a memory of another time when justice seemed sadly absent. Without realizing it, he began to softly speak, sharing the story with his unconscious charge.

 

**Many years ago…**

 

“She’s asked for you specifically,” Treville stated, one hand resting on his hip as he stood behind his desk.

 

Aramis couldn’t help but preen at the attention and the fact that, for once, he’d be fortunate enough to enjoy the fine food and wine being served at the palace, instead of having to blend into the background. Porthos couldn’t help but roll his eyes at his friend, already anticipating how insufferable the marksman would be over the next two days leading up to the celebration at the Louvre.

 

The King had decided on a lavish affair to mark the arrival of the summer solstice, and the Musketeers had been ordered, as usual, to be in attendance in order to protect the royals and their guests. That Aramis had been requested by one of those attending to be both escort and protector during the event was surprising, but based on the look on the marksman’s face, he had already fully embraced the assignment.

 

The woman in question was the Comtesse de Boulainvilliers, a particular favorite of the King’s, and someone who’d recently received several threats against her life. Louis had gallantly acquiesced to her request for a personal bodyguard, and hadn’t batted an eye when Aramis had been asked for by name. Although Treville had thought it odd, there was nothing he could do but assign the marksman to stay at the lady’s side throughout the event.

 

Swallowing a sigh, the Captain continued, “Present yourself to the palace tailor today, and they’ll ensure you’re appropriately dressed.” The widening grin on Aramis’ face ratcheted Treville’s burgeoning headache up a notch, and the officer hoped the others would be able to keep their friend in check. “Dismissed,” the Captain said in a resigned tone, waving his hand for the men to go. He would simply have to trust that Athos would ensure that the self-proclaimed ladies-man didn’t find any trouble while fulfilling his duties at the celebration.

 

Once they had exited Treville’s office and descended the stairs, they headed immediately to the stables for their horses and made their way to the Louvre. After passing through the impressive palace gates, Aramis dismounted and tipped his hat in his friends’ direction as he announced, “I must go see about my attire for tomorrow night. Adieu.” He departed with an extra bright smile on his face and a spring in his step, that was so typical for the marksman when he was thinking of a beautiful woman.

 

Athos merely sighed wearily and led the others to meet with the Captain of the Red Guards, needing to finalize the particulars of their protection details for the following night. As the three friends trudged away, the former Comte was uncertain if Treville had done him any favours by assigning him the task that would give them a brief reprieve from Aramis’ overly joyful mood.

 

The evening of the celebration found Aramis in a deep green doublet, white lace appearing at his neck and cuffs. His breeches matched the color of his doublet, and his usual blue sash had been replaced with one of ivory to match his shirt. At his insistence, he’d worn boots, although a much finer pair than the ones he normally sported. He felt somewhat naked without his pauldron on his shoulder and his pistols around his waist, despite the fact that he’d been allowed to keep his sword. Given the presence of his brothers-in-arms, the marksman was comfortable with the compromise.

 

As Aramis had expected, the Comtesse was stunningly beautiful regardless of being a few years his senior. He fell easily into place at her side and enjoyed the early hours of the celebration, moving between the dance floor, the heavily-laden banquet tables, and the various guests who all seemed acquainted with the lovely lady on his arm.

 

It was nearing midnight when Aramis’ attention shifted to a man dressed in red, his doublet embroidered in copious amounts of gold-colored thread and rich lace peeking out from his cuffs. As the marksman watched, the man shifted closer to a woman who wore a heavy necklace of brightly-colored gems around her neck. Deftly, the man cupped the nape of the lady’s neck with one hand, while leaning in to whisper something in her ear, the woman shivering at his proximity. When the man straightened, bringing the lady’s hand to his lips, the necklace was gone.

 

Glancing around, Aramis sought out the face of one of his friends, or at least another Musketeer, but there was no one in sight. The thief was excusing himself from his victim and the marksman couldn’t let the man get away. Turning to de Boulainvilliers he said, “My apologies, Madam, but I must excuse myself briefly while I deal with a matter that requires my attention.” Unknown to him, the lady’s eyes had drifted past his shoulder to watch the man in red step away and begin to make his way through the crowded room.

 

Tightening her hold on Aramis’ arm, the Comtesse protested, “But Monsieur Aramis, I will not feel safe without you at my side. Surely whatever requires your attention can be handled by another.”

 

The marksman shook his head gently as he affixed his most charming smile to his face. “If only it were so, Madam, but it appears that no one else is around to handle this affair.” He made to drop the woman’s hand and turn away, only to find the Comtesse pressing herself tightly against him, their joined hands now trapped between their two bodies. Immediately uncomfortable with the woman’s advances, Aramis tried to gently push de Boulainvilliers away, only to find her arm around his waist.

 

Taking a moment to glance in the direction of the departing thief, Aramis tried to reason with the lady who seemed intent on preventing his departure. “Madam, please, I promise to return as quickly as possible.” Another look around revealed that others were now starting to pay attention to the Comtesse’s overly amorous advances, and Aramis’ smile slipped just a notch.

 

Realizing that she would be unable to convince the Musketeer, de Boulainvilliers countered, “Take me with you, then.” She could see the hesitation playing on Aramis’ face as he warred with the decision to either bring her along or lose his chance at pursuit altogether. “After all, the King would be unhappy to hear that you had abandoned your post and left me alone.”

 

The words did the trick, and Aramis swallowed the sigh of frustration that welled in his chest. With a short nod, he found himself free of the woman’s restricting hold around his waist, and he wasted no time in leading the way through the other guests, de Boulainvilliers still gripping his hand tightly as she followed. It quickly became apparent to the marksman that they were headed outside, and he sped up his steps so he wouldn’t lose his prey in the massive gardens that lay ahead.

 

As they stepped outside, Aramis found his hand free and he breathed a sigh of relief that the woman had finally come to her senses and released him. “Stay behind me,” he threw back to her over his shoulder.

 

Unencumbered, Aramis moved forward several feet and called out to the man ahead of him. “Monsieur, stop, in the name of the King’s Musketeers.”

 

The words had the intended effect and the man in red paused, turning slowly to face the marksman. Aramis had unsheathed his sword and was slowly closing the distance between them as he said, “I believe you have something that doesn’t belong to you.”

 

The man raised his hands in surrender, even as he calmly asked, “And what are you going to do about it?”

 

Aramis’ brow furrowed momentarily at the man’s arrogance, but his sword arm was unwavering. “You’re under arrest,” he informed the man, now only a few feet away from the thief.

 

Before he could advance any further, the marksman found himself being driven to the ground, a tremendous force at his back propelling him forward. He grunted as he fell jarringly onto his knees and then onto his stomach, his hands unable to stop his downward descent. For several moments, he lay there in shock, his mind trying to comprehend what had happened. As the seconds passed, he realized that his left cheek was pressed into the dirt, and he could see his right arm extended away from him, as though reaching for the sword that now lay a foot or so beyond his reach. Slowly, he became aware of was the pain in his back, centred around his right shoulder, and he unconsciously groaned at the fiery sensation.

 

At that point, he must have briefly passed out, because the next thing he knew there were people shouting around him and there was a heavy weight on his back. “Stop,” he slurred, wishing that whatever was pressing against his wound would stop so the numb feeling from before could return.

 

“Sorry, Aramis; I’ve got to slow the bleeding,” Porthos’ comforting voice replied.

 

“Bleeding?” the marksman murmured, one eyebrow raising momentarily in confusion.

 

Patiently, the large Musketeer explained, “You were shot, Aramis. Athos and the others are taking care of it though. I don’t think the Comtesse will be enjoying any more of the King’s parties.”

 

Aramis tried to nod, but found he lacked the strength or coordination needed to do so. “That’s good,” he breathed out, succumbing to the blackness encroaching on his vision moments later.

 

As he’d rested in his bed afterwards, Athos and Porthos had gathered to explain what had happened. It seemed that the Comtesse was not as well off as it appeared, and she’d been supplementing her estate’s finances for years by stealing from other nobles. Her role was to distract anyone who might notice anything amiss, while her accomplice performed the actual deed. In this case, de Boulainvilliers was worried about the additional scrutiny of the Musketeers present, prompting her to concoct a story about fearing for her life and requesting a personal bodyguard. Aramis had been her unfortunate target, as the woman had believed her feminine wiles would be enough to distract the man if he noticed anything out of the norm. That the marksman had shirked her advances had been a great insult to the attractive Comtesse.

 

**Present Day**

 

“There you have it, d’Artagnan,” Aramis sighed as he finished recounting his tale. “I was doing my best to protect her and in exchange, she shot me in the back.”

 

Silence filled the room as the marksman stopped speaking, leaning back in his chair for a moment as he scrubbed a hand tiredly over his face. Moments later, his attention was drawn back to the Gascon, whose eyes were still closed.

 

“No good deed,” the young man whispered weakly, bringing a hint of a smile to the medic’s face.

 

“You’re awake,” Aramis stated unnecessarily, surprised at the first lucid words the Gascon had spoken in many hours.

 

With effort, d’Artagnan opened his eyes and blinked blearily at his friend. Licking dry lips, he asked, “How long?”

 

“How long?” the medic repeated, reaching for a cup filled with water. He supported his patient’s head with one hand as the other tipped the liquid to d’Artagnan’s lips. “Since you were hurt? Since you collapsed? Since you were last awake?”

 

Pulling the water away and settling the Gascon’s head back onto the settee, Aramis noted the vacant look on his friend’s face. Releasing a long exhale, he said, “Almost a day since you were stabbed, and about twelve hours since you collapsed. You’ve been feverish for hours and I…” His words hitched with emotion as he recalled his earlier thoughts about potentially losing both Treville and d’Artagnan. Clearing his throat, he began again, “We’ve been worried, d’Artagnan.”

 

Aramis was surprised to find Athos suddenly standing at his side, looking down at the Gascon. The older man rested a hand on d’Artagnan’s head, his thumb sweeping away a stray lock of sweaty hair as he said, “It’s good to see you awake.” The Gascon managed a slight grin, only a fraction of its usual brightness, but its presence made Athos and Aramis smile.


	7. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By now, the message he’d written to Athos should have arrived, and there was nothing left to do but wait; it was unfortunate that he wasn’t sure exactly what he was waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go, which will be up tomorrow. Thanks to my beta AZGirl for catching my mistakes.

Aramis allowed Athos a moment with d’Artagnan before awkwardly clearing his throat. When the older man looked his way, the medic said, “I need to have a look.” One hand fluttered vaguely toward the Gascon’s back and Athos nodded in understanding, shifting his position slightly to allow the other man access, but staying close enough to leave his hand where it was.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis leaned in closer and waited until he had his friend’s attention. “How are you feeling?” As he waited for a reply, his fingers moved to cut away the bandages covering the young man’s wound, wanting to save his friend the pain of unwrapping them.

 

“Fuzzy,” the Gascon eventually replied, his eyes drifting momentarily to his shoulder before closing them.

 

Not ready to allow d’Artagnan to sleep yet, Aramis posed another question. “How is your pain? It’s been a few hours and you can probably have another draught now if you need it.”

 

The Gascon seemed to consider the medic’s offer, finally prising his lids open as he replied, “M’ head hurts.”

 

Aramis’ head shot up, his fingers pausing their motion as he asked, “What about your shoulder?”

 

d’Artagnan licked his lips before slurring, “Numb.”

 

Athos frowned in concern at the medic, who gave a small shake of his head in reply, not wanting to upset his patient when it was likely too early to tell whether or not the stab wound had caused irreparable harm. “That may a good thing,” the marksman remarked lightly. “Especially since I need to have a look at it.”

 

The Gascon gave a slight dip of his chin, letting Aramis know that he understood. Aramis peeled back the poultice from d’Artagnan’s back, setting it aside before gently wiping away the remaining residue. Although his touch remained light, he felt a small thrill of relief when the pressure of the cloth he was wielding pulled a moan of pain from his friend. “I’m sorry, d’Artagnan.”

 

With his eyes tightly closed, and his face pinched by the freshly-awakened ache of his wound, the young man softly breathed out, “S’alright.”

 

Setting the soiled cloth aside, Aramis carefully pressed at the inflamed skin around the wound, worrying his bottom lip for a moment when a foul, yellowish liquid oozed out. “Seems this infection is not quite done with you yet,” the medic stated, already reaching for another square of linen to wipe away the unwelcome fluid. When he’d finished, he sat back for several seconds as he considered his options. On one hand, it was possible that the poultice would draw out whatever was making their friend sick, so patience could be their best course of action. On the other hand, it was possible that the poultice wasn’t having any effect, and waiting longer to open the wound and clean it out could have disastrous and permanent consequences.

 

“Aramis,” Athos’ voice prompted him from his musings and he started slightly, gracing his friend with a faint smile when he noticed that the older man was once more wiping down the Gascon’s face with a damp cloth. “What do we do now?”

 

The Captain’s choice of words made Aramis’ lips turn up a little more, Athos making it clear that the medic was not alone in this situation, no matter how much he might feel that way. Exhaling slowly, he purposely mirrored the older man’s words as he said, “ _We_ have a decision to make. I can make up another poultice and give it more time to work, or open up the wound and attempt to clean out the infection.”

 

Aramis could see the expression of worry on Athos’ face deepen as he processed the medic’s words. “If you open the wound, would it not start bleeding again?”

 

The medic nodded reluctantly, the older man having exactly voiced his own concerns. It would do them no good to cure the infection if their patient died of blood loss instead. As if sensing the men’s quandary, d’Artagnan surprised them both by speaking. “Take the stitches out.”

 

Aramis shifted his focus back to the injured man. “d’Artagnan, you’ve already lost a lot of blood.” The Gascon chose that moment to shiver in reply, adding credence to the medic’s words. “I’m not sure how much more you can afford to lose.”

 

With effort, d’Artagnan forced his eyes open, pinning his friend with a look that conveyed as much confidence as he could muster. “It’s the best chance?” he asked, the medic pausing for several seconds before grudgingly nodding. “Then do it.”

 

The medic began to shake his head, but the Gascon’s words stopped him. “Trust you.” The effort of speaking had sapped d’Artagnan’s meagre strength and his eyes slipped closed, leaving the two friends staring at one another as they decided how to proceed.

 

“Athos,” Aramis said, his expression lost as he looked to the older man for advice.

 

The Captain had a look of resignation on his face as he replied, “Do it.” The medic held the other man’s gaze for several moments before his shoulders slumped in resignation. Silently, he stood and began gathering the supplies he would need. As he did so, one thought continued to repeat endlessly in his aching head - _what if I’ve chosen incorrectly and he dies?_

 

With his back turned to Athos, he let his head momentarily fall to his chest, closing his eyes as he tried to push the terrifying notion from his mind. Silently, he said a short prayer, asking God for the courage to do what needed to be done. Drawing a shaky breath, he steeled his nerve, and finished collecting his things. Forcing all thoughts of failure from his head, he retook his seat, noting idly that his hand wasn’t even shaking as he cut through the first stitch in d’Artagnan’s skin. 

* * *

Porthos shrugged deeper into the blanket that sat around his shoulders, his eyes resting for several seconds on the bottle of brandy sitting in front of him, before looking away again. As much as it was tempting to indulge in Athos’ favorite coping mechanism, he needed to keep a clear head while in charge. He’d allowed himself only two glasses. The first had burned a fiery path down his throat and into his belly as he’d fairly gulped the strong liquid. The second glass had been savoured, some part of Porthos’ brain knowing that he could not allow himself another, no matter how strong the desire.

 

Now, his glass was again empty and it would be obvious to the Captain that his supply of brandy had been pillaged, but Porthos was certain his friend would understand. He hadn’t been able to find the energy to leave Athos’ office, and had only managed to pull a scratchy blanket from his friend’s bed in order to stave off the evening chill. Bleary eyes moved to check the moon’s position through the window, and he was unsurprised to find that it was still the middle of the night. He had no idea why he’d chosen to stay awake rather than going to sleep, but had instinctively known that he’d be unable to rest while the others were away.

 

By now, the message he’d written to Athos should have arrived, and there was nothing left to do but wait; it was unfortunate that he wasn’t sure exactly what he was waiting for. It was possible that another missive would arrive from Lorraine’s estate, providing an update on d’Artagnan’s condition, which Porthos dearly hoped was improving. It was just as possible that there would be no additional messages until the Gascon was fit enough to travel, leaving Porthos waiting and wondering, with an unfortunately fertile imagination conjuring up the worst possible scenarios, one after the other.

 

He hated waiting. Inactivity was akin to a day without wine for Athos and a day without a woman’s touch for Aramis. He was not proud to admit that patience had never been a virtue he’d successfully mastered, and a hint of a smile spread across his face as he thought about how the marksman would tease him about his inability to wait. In fact, Aramis had done exactly that, the last time they’d found themselves in a similar situation.

 

**Four years earlier**

 

“We should go find out what’s going on,” Porthos groused again, causing the marksman to roll his eyes good-naturedly, but otherwise completely ignore his friend’s comment. It had been like this for the last three hours, with the larger man alternating between vocally and physically conveying his frustration at their current situation. Aramis wasn’t any happier about how things had unfolded, but he at least had the good sense to acknowledge that the situation was in good hands. Until they received word to the contrary, their best course of action was to simply be patient and wait.

 

Porthos’ ire only seemed to grow when he realized that Aramis had no intention of replying, and he turned and completed another circuit of the small room, gritting his teeth as he did so. The marksman’s keen eyes took note of the sheen of sweat that covered the larger man’s brow, and the crinkled skin around his eyes, signalling unspoken discomfort. Clearing his throat, Aramis kept his tone casual as he said, “Why don’t you sit down? I’m sure it won’t be much longer.”

 

Porthos threw him a caustic look that clearly conveyed what he thought of the medic’s suggestion, before pacing across the space once more. It was not that he discounted his friend’s opinion, but he’d never been the overly patient sort. Growing up in the Court of Miracles had taught him the lesson that action was necessary for survival, and it was a lesson he’d learned well. How could he possibly change something so ingrained now when, even as a Musketeer, he was often applauded for his ability to do something when others could or would not?

 

No, he shook his head to himself, waiting was not the answer. Having reached a decision, his next circuit of the room brought him to the door where he found himself face to face with a determined Aramis. “Outa my way,” Porthos ordered lowly, resisting the urge to place a hand against one wall as he glared at his friend.

 

The marksman was unfazed, even daring to grin cheekily at the larger man as he crossed his arms and leaned languidly against the door at his back. “No.”

 

Porthos rolled his eyes as he realized that the other man would not be intimidated into moving. “Aramis,” he growled, hoping to convey the depth of his irritation, prompting his friend to move.

 

If possible, Aramis’ grin only widened as he repeated his earlier answer. “No.”

 

“Aw, ‘Mis,” Porthos’ head dropped for a moment and he swayed, the marksman immediately reaching for his arm to steady him. Within moments, Aramis was leading the large man back to bed, lowering him gently onto the mattress.

 

Porthos’ breathing had quickened as the extended amount of time on his feet took its toll. Wincing and biting his lip against the pain, he remained pliable while the marksman lifted his legs onto the bed, releasing a long, shaky exhale as he leaned back into the pillows at his back.

 

“You’ve overdone it,” Aramis scolded, although his eyes shone with unbridled concern. It was difficult to be mad at his friend, given how pathetic he looked, wearing nothing more than an off-white shirt and his braies, the latter which had been slit neatly along the length of one leg. “You need to rest if you want to heal properly. May I?” The medic indicated Porthos’ bandaged thigh, and the larger man shrugged in agreement, giving his friend permission to check his wound.

 

Aramis was gentle as he sliced through the heavy bandaging that supported the stitches holding Porthos’ skin and muscle together. The slice had been long and deep, bringing the large man to the ground as soon as the blade had landed. It had bled heavily, leaving Porthos incredibly weak and shaking from a combination of pain and blood loss. For the first twelve hours after the injury, Aramis had been uncertain whether his friend was strong enough to battle back from the horrific wound, until slowly, hour by hour, Porthos’ breathing and color began to return to normal.

 

As the large man had begun to recover his strength, the next enemy they had to fight was boredom; Porthos was never good at staying still for long periods of time, unless there was a card game involved. As expected, he’d pushed to do more than his body could manage, and to date, had popped the stitches in his leg on two separate occasions. Aramis was relatively certain that today’s desperate pacing wouldn’t mark a third occurrence, and that Porthos’ leg was merely overly fatigued from the amount of time he’d spent on his feet.

 

As the bandages fell away, the marksman was pleased to see that the cut was still closed, none of the stitches torn, and only a few spots of red appearing as small dots along some of the bits of thread. He looked up to see Porthos frowning at his traitorous leg, the large man’s thoughts easily read by the expression on his face. “There’s nothing you can do,” Aramis reminded his friend. Porthos huffed, even though rationally he knew the medic was right. “Athos and d’Artagnan will be fine – you’ll see. I’d wager they’ll be back with us by dinnertime,” the marksman continued.

 

Porthos’ expression was still dark. Aramis knew that his friend was bothered by the fact that their brothers were on a mission alone, but realized there was more to the large man’s discontent. “You did the right thing,” the marksman stated.

 

The injured man huffed once more, although there seemed to be less vehemence in the action this time than the last. “Could you have lived with yourself if you’d done nothing?” Aramis asked.

 

Porthos’ gaze locked with the medic’s, his expression shifting quickly from outrage to annoyance as he realized what his friend was trying to do. He cast his mind back to the night one week ago when he’d spotted three men robbing and beating their hapless victim. That the men’s prey was a Red Guard didn’t stop Porthos for an instant, as he’d immediately thrown himself at the attackers and come to the soldier’s defense. Aramis and the others had been several steps behind the large Musketeer; it took them longer than they’d cared to admit to react and join the melee. By the time they’d arrived, Porthos had already dispatched two of the thieves, but they were too late to stop the last one from injuring their friend.

 

Aramis had immediately dropped to his knees at Porthos’ side, pressing his hands against the river of red that seemed to flow from the large man’s leg, while Athos and d’Artagnan had dealt with the robber. As the medic had knelt there, waiting for his two friends to finish, the ungrateful Red Guard had staggered to his feet. “I need your help,” Aramis had hissed at the man, needing to find something to hold against the wound, but unwilling to move his hands away for the amount of time it would take to find a makeshift bandage.

 

To his disgust, the rescued man had gotten one look at the dusky hue of Porthos’ skin and the pauldron on his shoulder, and sneered as he’d spat, “He don’t deserve my help.” In amazement, Aramis had watched the repulsive man stumble away, leaving his rescuer bleeding into the dirt. Despite the Red Guard’s actions, Porthos had shown no remorse for having come to the man’s aid, and still didn’t regret that he’d done so.

 

Reminded of that fact, the injured man grudgingly replied, “No, but it was still a damn stupid reason to get hurt.”

 

Aramis smiled at his friend, clearly humouring him, but his words were serious when he spoke. “I still wish you’d let us track him down and _thank_ him for his help.”

 

Porthos’ eyes were full of warmth at the concern being shown by the marksman, and he placed his hand on his friend’s forearm as he said, “You know what they say about no good deed.” Aramis had grimaced at the comment, but had let the topic drop as he’d cleaned and re-wrapped his friend’s wound. Then, in companionable silence, the two men had waited for their friends to return.


	8. Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their days had been filled with too much worrying, too little sleep, and nearly overwhelming sadness as they prepared to put one of their own to rest.

The process of having his wound re-opened and cleaned had left d’Artagnan pale and trembling from the intense pain he’d endured. Athos and Aramis had both prayed that the young man would pass out at some point; incredibly, the Gascon had remained awake throughout. The medic had steadfastly ignored his friend’s sharp inhales and soft moans, as he’d carefully pulled the thread from d’Artagnan’s back and then scrubbed until every last visible bit of infection had been eradicated.

 

Athos had started out near the Gascon’s head, but as the process went on, he’d circled around to the back of the settee so that d’Artagnan could see him without having to crane his neck. Next, the older man had reached out for his protégé’s hand, happy to find that, despite being the one on his injured side, it was pleasantly warm. As Aramis began to clean the entry point of the blade into d’Artagnan’s skin, Athos had been surprised when his hand was lightly squeezed in the younger man’s weak grasp. The medic was too focused on his work to notice, so the Captain made a mental note to share the good news later.

 

When Aramis finally looked up, he wiped his hands on a clean cloth, critically eying the unstitched wound, which was still leaking a persistent trickle of blood. His first instinct was to leave it open to the air, but the fact that the cut still bled concerned him. Releasing d’Artagnan’s hand, Athos leaned over the back of the settee to get a better look at the red, inflamed skin, and the worrying amount of fluid that spilled over the edge of the cut. “Can we afford to leave it like that?” he queried softly.

 

Aramis found himself waffling uncertainly, and he silently cursed his indecision, the experience so uncharacteristic for him when it came to tending his friends’ hurts. With a sigh, he took a second to rub his tired, gritty eyes before letting his hand drop to his lap. “I’ll leave it open for now, and try and slow the bleeding by applying pressure. If that’s not enough, I’ll have no choice but to close it up again.” Athos nodded slowly in agreement, honestly not having an opinion on the matter, but wanting his friend to know that he supported his decision.

 

Aramis folded a clean square of linen into a thick pad and pressed it to the weeping wound. d’Artagnan had fallen quiet while the medic and Athos had talked, and the men had hoped their friend had fallen asleep; the quick, pained intake of breath that accompanied Aramis’ touch proved otherwise.

 

Athos once more found the Gascon’s hand and clasped it gently, while at the same time leaning close to his protégé’s ear to whisper, “Breathe, d’Artagnan.”

 

The Gascon’s head jerked slightly in reply, although his eyes remained closed. It took several long seconds for d’Artagnan to overcome the agony that seemed to have frozen his lungs, finally managing a short, shaky inhale. Slowly, his breathing returned to a more even cadence, and Athos found his own breathing easing in turn. “Hurts,” the Gascon croaked out, and his friends both winced at the wrecked quality of the young man’s voice.

 

“I know,” Aramis replied. “I’m sorry.” Though he desperately wanted to release the pressure that was causing his friend’s pain, he couldn’t relent, and his hand stayed where it was, pressing firmly against the linen that covered d’Artagnan’s wound.

 

With a quick glance at the medic, Athos added, “Just a short while longer; the bleeding has almost stopped.” The marksman raised a questioning brow at the statement, but he didn’t contradict the older man, recognizing that their patient needed to believe that the painful experience was nearly at an end.

 

“I’ve prepared another pain draught for you, d’Artagnan,” Aramis said. “Once I’m finished here, we’ll help you drink it so you can get some rest.”

 

“Don’t want to rest,” the Gascon mumbled, although his half-lidded eyes contradicted him. “Want revenge.”

 

Athos and Aramis traded startled looks at their friend’s words. It was not that such an objective would be out of character for the hot-blooded Gascon, but it surprised them that Treville’s death would prompt such strong emotions from the young man. After a moment’s reflection, both Musketeers realized that they shouldn’t be surprised; Treville had supported d’Artagnan’s training and subsequent commission almost since the day the Gascon had arrived at the garrison to challenge Athos to a duel. It was reasonable that the young man would feel Treville’s loss as deeply as the rest of them.

 

Athos struggled to keep his voice even since his desire for revenge likely outshone all of theirs. “There will be plenty of time for that once you’ve healed.”

 

Jumping on the opportunity, Aramis added, “And that requires you to rest. You’ll do as I say, if you know what’s good for you.”

 

The comment from the well-meaning medic prompted a slight upturning of d’Artagnan’s lips, as he momentarily opened his glassy eyes wider. “Not scared of you.”

 

Not missing a beat, and grateful for the short moment of normalcy, Athos gently chided, “It’s not him you need to be scared of. You know I’ll keep you off duty until he tells me you’re well enough to return.”

 

The Gascon offered a weak snort in reply, his breath hitching a moment later as the action caused a momentary spike in his pain. Athos squeezed his friend’s hand again, his eyes drifting to where Aramis was still applying pressure to the Gascon’s back, the square of linen now stained with a worrying patch of red. Lifting his eyes to the medic’s, Athos received a quick head shake in reply, indicating that the wound had not yet sufficiently stopped bleeding.

 

Recognizing that the process might take longer than they’d hoped, and that d’Artagnan’s body was continuing to tremble and shiver from the shock of blood loss and pain, Athos gingerly removed his hand from his friend’s grasp. Two steps brought him to the table where Aramis’ pain draught awaited, and he was back at the Gascon’s side in mere seconds. “d’Artagnan, I’m going to help you so you can drink this now.” It was a testament to the young man’s misery that he didn’t protest in any way.

 

Aramis shifted slightly to one side and watched as Athos carefully cradled the young man’s head, lifting it only a few centimetres until he could drink without choking. As the Captain tipped the cup forward, d’Artagnan swallowed with difficulty, his body almost too weak to manage even such a simple task. Athos felt the pressure of the Gascon’s head against his hand when the young man tried to pull away from the cup, indicating that he didn’t want any more. Athos obliged, settling his protégé’s head down again before glancing into the half-empty vessel. He tipped it towards Aramis and received a nod of satisfaction – the amount ingested would be sufficient to dull d’Artagnan’s pain.

 

Although the Gascon had willingly drunk the draught, a part of him railed against the idea of falling asleep, worried that he might never again wake. Neither man had spoken of his condition, but his body felt consumed by fire and ice, and he could almost picture the waves of heat and cold alternately flowing outwards from his wound. He knew that the infection was serious, and he desperately wanted to slip away from the discomfort he was now experiencing. His body wavered continuously between too hot and desperately chilled, making his joints and muscles ache until there seemed to be no escape. His overheated body sweated continuously, and he felt damp and sticky, not even comfortable in his own skin.

 

The worst part was the overwhelming numb sensation that seemed to have encompassed his mind, which made time fluid and reality hard to hold onto. For that reason, he’d gratefully clung to Athos’ hand and the pain that Aramis was causing, his friends’ physical touches the only thing his fevered and concussed brain could discern as real. With the loss of his mentor’s touch, d’Artagnan found himself startling from his fugue state, having nearly fallen asleep, but unable to remain that way as he straddled the line between unconsciousness and wakefulness. “Athos,” he softly slurred, his fingers twitching as they searched for his brother’s comforting hold.

 

Recognizing immediately what the Gascon wanted, Athos slipped back into his previous position, his one hand gripping the young man’s while the other rested on the nape of his neck. As he gently massaged the tense muscles beneath his fingers, Athos said, “It’s alright, d’Artagnan; you can let go.”

 

Moments later, the Gascon’s body fell limp and he released a last, long exhale. 

* * *

**Two weeks later**

 

Their days had been filled with too much worrying, too little sleep, and nearly overwhelming sadness as they prepared to put one of their own to rest. Porthos’ initial joy at seeing Athos and Aramis riding through the garrison gates had been immediately squelched as soon as his eyes had landed on the linen-wrapped bundle in the back of the wagon.

 

_He sought out his brothers’ gazes and saw the same all-encompassing grief in their faces that now darkened his own features. For a moment, the breath seemed to leave his chest, and all sound was sucked from the air. He suddenly found himself frozen in place as he watched the men slowly pull into the centre of the courtyard._

_When the horses had come to a stand-still, Porthos finally found the strength to move, and his feet carried him numbly down the stairs from Athos’ office. The Captain was the first to dismount, and he stood next to his horse, waiting for the large man to arrive. When he did, Porthos wordlessly embraced the older man, hearing the barely-contained sob that Athos allowed as he pressed his face into his friend’s shoulder. They remained that way for a minute before the officer lifted his head in order to pull away, and Porthos gripped the man’s upper arms for a few seconds longer before he was confident that Athos was steady enough to stand on his own._

_He turned towards Aramis next, watching as the marksman wearily climbed down from his seat at the front of the wagon. Both men reached for one another, and Porthos revelled in the feeling of his friend’s arms wrapped tightly around him, each man giving and receiving comfort from their closeness. The large man knew that the past couple of days had to have been especially difficult for the medic, and the evidence of it could be seen in the dark circles beneath Aramis’ eyes and his overall haggard appearance. Porthos was grateful to feel some of the tension leaching from the marksman’s frame as he continued to support him, and he patiently waited until his friend was ready to release him._

_Glancing from one man to the other, he asked, “How was your trip?”_

_Aramis drew a steadying breath, some of his strength renewed by the presence of his friend. “Difficult and tiring.”_

_Porthos nodded understandingly, as he said, “Too stubborn to listen, as always?”_

_From his perch at the front of the wagon, d’Artagnan’s face turned to irritation as he replied, “I listened.”_

_Athos turned toward the still too-pale features of their injured friend, noting the way the young man slumped now that he was bereft of Aramis’ support at this side. He intentionally kept his tone neutral as he countered, “You may have listened, but you remained steadfast in asserting your will when it came to our travel arrangements.” The Gascon’s gaze flicked momentarily behind him, to where Treville’s body lay. The Captain caught the look as he continued on. “Of course, under the circumstances, I believe we can understand your reticence to follow Aramis’ suggestion.” The marksman caught the meaningful look cast his way by the older man, and gave a small dip of his chin in agreement, acknowledging that he wouldn’t have wanted to travel next to a dead man either._

_They’d helped d’Artagnan down from the wagon then, his weakened state obvious in how much of his weight was carried by Aramis and Porthos, while Athos sorted the horses and arranged for food and supplies to be brought. There was no question of their destination; Constance would never forgive them if they brought her husband anywhere other than their quarters. As soon as she’d laid eyes on him, they misted with unshed tears, and she covered her shock at d’Artagnan’s appearance with brusque orders for the men to bring him into the bedroom so he could lie down. Aramis and Porthos had wisely done exactly as they’d been ordered, and then retreated for a few minutes to give the couple some time alone._

_The next hours had been filled with Constance and Aramis tending to the Gascon’s wound, and the four of them – sans d’Artagnan, who’d gratefully fallen asleep – at the table, sharing food and wine, and retelling the events that had brought them to this point._

Thankfully, the young man had improved drastically from that first night at Lorraine’s estate, when neither Aramis nor Athos had been confident of his survival. However, the medic’s decision had been the correct one, and d’Artagnan’s fever had improved enough by the second day that they could risk the journey home. Aramis was surprised that the Gascon was a model patient upon their return, initially crediting Constance’s presence, but was disabused of his assumption when d’Artagnan announced that he would join them as one of the Regent’s pallbearers.

 

The marksman was vehemently opposed to the idea, but the dual intense looks from Athos and Porthos had him acquiescing, recognizing how important it was for the young man to participate in this final act of respect to a man who’d given them all so much. Aramis had wearily nodded, stressing that d’Artagnan would be positioned so that his left side bore the weight of the casket, thereby protecting his still-healing right shoulder and flank. If the Gascon’s eyes had been bright with moisture at Aramis’ agreement, the marksman had chosen to ignore that fact.

 

That had been over a week ago; today they stood in the large church, preparing to carry Treville on his final journey. Athos and d’Artagnan stepped forward to take their places, and then the Captain’s strong voice rang out. “Turn.” A moment passed in silence, and another word followed. “Lift.” And they did, their strong backs bearing their burden, seemingly without trouble. Treville had paid the ultimate price for his good deed, but it seemed that they, as the ones left behind, were the ones being punished by his absence.

 

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and I hope you'll let me know your thoughts on this last chapter. My appreciation also to AZGirl for all of her help with this story. Until next time!


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